


oil up those sticky keys

by eskimokiss



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 23:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1243930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eskimokiss/pseuds/eskimokiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry shouldn't be good at this for someone who's never picked up at a bar. </p><p>Or: Harry and Niall have sex after meeting in <i>The Factory 251</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oil up those sticky keys

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first time i've ever posted on ao3 and written smut don't hate me

"Remind me, why am I here again?" Harry huffs loudly, knocking his head against the wall for effect. 

"Last night of freedom. You love spending time with me. You just scored your first _real_ job. The list is literally endless," Zayn smiles lazily, tipping the last of his beer back. Harry always hates this 

place when he's tired, and he especially hates when Zayn goes on the prowl for girls to fuck. He's recently been broken up with, and maybe, Harry supposes, he should be a supportive friend and help him 

through his romantic rough patch, but he's seen it all before. 

First, with Tiffany when they were seventeen, then Ella and Honor the next year, followed by a plethora of Amys and Kellys and Samanthas. It all got too confusing to keep up with, so he stopped trying somewhere around their respective 20th birthdays. There was one, however, that managed to sneak past the mundane description of Zayn's exes — blonde, blue-eyed, quiet, easily mouldable. Harry remembers it like it was yesterday. 2012: The Infamous Year of Brittany. Harry has dubbed it thus because Brittany (or _Bri_ , as she preferred) toyed with Zayn's mind so much that he almost couldn't regonise his own best friend anymore. Brittany was different to the others, and not in a good way at all. She had this way of lodging herself in Zayn's brain like a terminal disease. At least, to Harry, and to everyone that actually cared about Zayn, that's the way it felt. 

But that's beside the point. 

The point is this: Zayn's downright awful to go out on the town with. He knows — once Zayn inevitably gets rejected, because his pickup lines surpass cheesy, and he's too cheap to buy drinks for girls — he's going to have to suffer through Zayn getting blackout wasted, carrying him home at three in the morning, and complying with Needy, Drunk Zayn. There's nothing more that Harry hates in this world, but Zayn had miraculously (and with a higher power at his side) managed to cajole him into it and he can't back out now. Not without receiving abhorrent amounts of grief first. So, he was stuck at an old favourite from when they were all in university: a place called _The Factory 251_. 

It's the kind of place that plays too much Selena Gomez, where piss weak beer is served to nervous, fake ID holders who look barely old enough to be out past eight p.m., but there are lots of memories at 

this place. Like, for example, that time that Liam pissed himself waiting in line to go toilet, because he blatantly refused to go out the back ginnel like any other normal bloke, or when Louis accidentally 

hooked up with his old babysitter. 

Besides, and though he won't admit it, he feels a little sorry for his best friend. While Liam, Louis and Harry all have jobs — or, in Harry's case, just about to start one —, Zayn is still a little stuck in his university days, crashing on Liam's couch _for the time being_. He doesn't seem to mind terribly, because he still manages to bum a few pints here and there off of his three best friends. Not cigarettes, though, because none of them smoke. _"I hang out with too many white boys,"_ Zayn had said, on more than one occasion, mind you, after discovering that no, Harry didn't have a spare smoke in his pocket. He hasn't had a spare smoke in his pocket since he was seventeen.

"I happen to _like_ accounting, Zayn," Harry snipes, clasping his hand around the only beer they had on tap at _The Factory_. 

Zayn waves his hand about. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. All I hear is _I'm a nerd_ , over and over again."

Harry mimes being hurt, placing a hand on a chest with a slight hiss. He's gotten used to Zayn's snipes and Louis' sarcastic remarks over the years. "Ooh, you got me good, Zaynie. It's not like I've heard that one before."

Zayn rolls his eyes. "I'm gonna go see if I can steal some ciggies off those preteens over there."

Harry snorts. "Well, you look adequately terrifying. They'll probably hand over their wallets if you flash 'em your tattoos."

Both laugh, and while Zayn wandered off with his most winning smile painted on his lips, Harry drums his fingers against the table. _Toxic_ by Britney Spears was playing, one of Harry's most revered songs, and just when Zayn spends a little longer than he normally should having a smoke and Harry gets up to go, he notices a spike of blonde hair in the crowd that makes him stop in his tracks. It doesn't look familiar, and it doesn't make Harry envious in any way, but he decidedly prefers blondes over brunettes. He is not surprised that when Blonde Boy turns just enough for Harry to catch a glimpse of the colour of his eyes, they're inherently blue. Like, maybe more blue than the sea and the sky and all blue things combined. And then he grins, and Harry almost melts. This boy is the spitting image of beautiful, and maybe, Harry thinks, he's never going to see anyone like this in his life again. He sits back down in his seat, drinks his beer, and sneaks the occasional glance at the boy. He looks younger than Harry, maybe by three or four years, but that doesn't really stop Harry wondering what he'd be like in the mornings, or after his football team won. He even, for a few moments, wonders if he likes it rough. His phone buzzes, crashing his train of thought suddenly. The text is from Zayn. 

_Ended up talkin 2 some chick, proper fit!!!! talk tomorrow_

**You're a dick, you know that?** , Harry responds with a frown. 

Zayn doesn't reply, and Harry knows that his ear will be talked off tomorrow after he's had a good shag. 

Before Harry can even stand up to go home, he feels his shoulder being tapped. Three times, right where the acromioclavicular joint and the acromion meet. (Harry fancies himself as a bit of a biology nerd, despite the fact that he's still a fully trained accountant. He's always thought that maybe, if things had gone differently during college, he'd be a biologist.) A throaty cough sounds, and when Harry turns his head, he meets the bluest eyes he's ever seen. Bluer than rivers in New Zealand (Harry would know), and easily bluer than the tips of his sister's hair. He even notices, in the murky lighting and irritating bouncing lasers, that he has a ring of gold around his pupil. It's almost embarrassing that Harry notices so much about this stranger. 

The boy smirks, sticks out his hand, and utters five words that make Harry almost go weak at the knees. 

"What are you drinkin'?"

It definitely _is_ embarrassing that Harry thinks that's romantic enough to make sure he can't stand properly. He coughs out a weak laugh, twists his body around properly so he can really see Niall. 

He notices — though not for the first time — that his hair is naturally dark brown, but it doesn't matter one iota, because Harry's impossibly attracted to Niall anyway. "Me?" Harry asks, making sure that this isn't some sick joke. The last time Harry got approached by a guy in _The Factory_ , was, well, never. Gay guys don't frequent places like this, Harry had decided a long time ago. He's only there because, unfortunately, all of his friends are straight. 

In response, he smiles and nods. "Niall," he says. 

"'M Harry."

 _Niall,_ Harry thinks. He likes the way it rolls off of the blue-eyed, blonde-haired boy before him.

&&

Harry's tongue sweeps into the seam of Niall's mouth, and it almost hurts him how _right_ it feels. It's all frantic and too fast and too uncoordinated — Niall's hand is clumsily looped into Harry's belt loop and Harry's fingers are twisted through Niall's hair, ruining the way it defies gravity. Harry doesn't care anyway. He thinks Niall is beautiful.

They can barely tear away from each other in time for the elevator in Harry's flat block dings loudly. Eventually, and with a few frustrated twists and turns of Harry's key into the lock, they manage to clamber in through to his flat. 

It's not a particularly charming place — piles of paper are still lying about from his time at teacher's college, and previously, from essays and paragraphs he'd written when studying in university, the place hasn't been vaccuumed since he bought it, and there are at least ten cans of fly spray around. (Even though Manchester's not exactly a _tropical getaway_ , this summer had been particularly vicious, and in their masses, flies and mosquitoes had taken over Harry's flat. It was only just starting to get back to normal, thankfully.) 

"Nice place," Niall mumbles automatically without looking around. He sounds like he knew what he was doing, and that scared Harry, because the twenty-three-year-old man ( _boy_ , his sister would argue) has never had a one-night-stand in his life, and the idea of a stranger sleeping with him and then disappearing into oblivion is entirely strange to him. He's basing every action, every slip of his tongue and every wink of his eye, on the films he'd seen, and a little bit on porn. He can't help it: he's an impressionable young man. He is slightly wary of the fact that Niall could anticipate his every move like he'd done this a billion times before, because what if he was doing it all wrong? What if he was nibbling a little too hard on Niall's lip, or his hands weren't in the right place? 

Harry is a worry-wart at the worst of times. 

"Bedroom?" Niall says, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow. Under his scrutinising gaze, Harry feels like he's doing everything wrong. He just nudges his nose past the kitchen to a hallway of crickety doors. His bedroom is the first, the bathroom and toilet is the second, and the living room is the last. It's not The Ritz, but on a starting salary for someone who's just left university, he thinks it's pretty okay. If he'd known he'd be doing this, however, he might've tidied up a little bit. Maybe he would've pulled out the hoover. 

They practically stumble over each other for the bedroom door, and once they're in, Niall's the first to rip off his clothes. His skin is smooth, pale, and Harry wants to rake his nails over every part of him. 

Harry wants, almost desperately, to lock the doors and never let anyone corrupt Niall. He never wants anyone to stick a tattoo gun to his Irish complexion, or let the sun damage his skin. He wants Niall to _stay_ Niall. 

Then, when Niall reattaches his lips to Harry's, Harry suddenly could not care less whether or not he's going to wake Mrs. Holtham's new baby boy next door, or that he's got to prepare himself for his first official job at an official accounting firm on Monday. Niall's hands drop to the expanse of skin where _might as well..._ is imprinted on him, and Harry's moan is already so weak and desperate that he thinks he might actually come before Niall can do anything. _How embarrassing_ , he thinks, blushing. It has been a while, he likes to tell himself. Almost a whole year. That, of course, is the length of time it has taken to get over his prick of an ex-boyfriend, Aaron. But never mind that. 

They stand there for a little bit, clashing teeth and tongue desperately. It takes a few seconds too long before they realise that there's a bed almost half a metre away from them, and upon that realisation, 

Niall drags Harry to the bed and climbs over him, so that his knees are beside Harry's hips (more specifically, roughly where the iliac crest would lie on his hip bone), and his hands are at his elbows (or where the ulna and humerus meet). They're still kissing, and it feels like an eternity before Harry works up the courage to slide his fingers into Niall's pants. He's impossibly hard, and when Harry gently gives him two long, slow pumps, he finds that Niall gets even harder. "Oh," the Irishman breathes softly into Harry's mouth. 

"Stand," Harry commands. He startles himself because _wow,_ Harry has never held so much conviction in his tone. Niall obliges, stands, and yanks off Harry's stupid plaid shirt to discover too many tattoos. 

Niall is a little bit startled because _wow,_ he really did not see that one coming. He thinks that Harry is far too soft and un-intimidating to have a tattoo of a ship on his bicep and a giant moth on his stomach. 

All thoughts about how lovely Harry's skin is escape his mind as soon as Harry gets on his knees. He looks positively mouth-watering, with his blue-green eyes staring up at Niall as he apprehensively pulls his boxers down around his ankle. Again, Harry gives Niall two long, slow pumps, and again, Niall reacts the same way. His left hand is twisting up the sheets at the end of the bed and his other is curled into Harry's hair. 

Harry, who's positively shaking with nerves by this point, decides to tease him a little bit. His fingers linger a little at the junction his thigh and his pubic bone, and his lips are leaving small wet patches right where his V line disappears into his crotch. It takes thirty seconds before Niall decides he can't really handle it anymore. "Jesus, Harry, quit teasin'."

That's all Harry really needs. 

With his large hand grasping the base, he licks a line up the underside of Niall's dick, and smiles when Niall shudders. When his tongue reaches Niall's tip, using a trick taught to him by a high school boyfriend, Harry swirls his tongue in figure eights at his tip, and simultaneously runs his thumb along his biggest vein. Niall's grip on Harry's hair has tightened. "Oh, _fuck_ ," he curses. 

Harry does that for another few seconds, and when Niall starts to get used to the feeling, Harry hollows his cheeks and takes as much of him as he can, which is almost his entire length. Niall's swearing is so violent that Harry begins to think, maybe, he's good at this. It's only been a few minutes, at most, but _god,_ Harry keeps throwing curveballs at him, doesn't he? 

Harry moves his hand gently up and down what he can't fit in his mouth, and with his other, he plants it firmly on Niall's hip for stability. "Y-you need to st-stop— I'm gonna—"

Niall's head rolls back and his breath shudders, and both can already tell that unless Niall can bounce back fast, sex isn't in the cards tonight. Harry hopes he can bounce back fast. He decides, though, that even if he can't, he probably won't mind anyway. It was a pleasure watching him writhe around, with a wild look in his eyes. 

Niall pulls himself out of Harry's mouth and comes so violently, he sees stars. His toes curl, his hands ball into fists, and his eyes are squeezed tight, too tight. Harry pumps him through it, with the evidence of his orgasm on Harry's face and on his carpet. A little bit gets on his dresser; the one his beloved grandmother bequeathed to him in his will, but he tells himself that he'll wipe it down later, when he's not so infatuated with the blonde boy before him. "Jesus _fucking_ Christ," Niall almost bellows. 

The smirk on Harry's face is so wide that Niall thinks he might make a joke about how the astronauts could probably see it in space if they squinted a little bit. "Who taught you that shit?" he asks instead, breathing heavily as Harry stands. 

"Am I really that good?"

"You're _brilliant_ ," Niall says. He's sufficiently inebriated enough to hand out compliments where he usually wouldn't. 

Harry only smiles wider. He wants to say, _so I'm told,_ but Niall's the only one who's ever told him he's good at blowjobs. Instead, he says, "Think you can bounce back, young'n?"

Harry doesn't even know how old Niall is — he's just subconsciously decided that, because of his rosy cheeks and distinct lack of frown lines or wrinkles, that he's pretty young. Maybe three years younger than him. He doesn't ask, though. "I can certainly try."

It takes Niall roughly three minutes of rough kissing and (slightly) childish grinding to get back in the mood, and boy, does Harry want it. Niall looks almost wrecked, debauched, ruined, when Harry slicks his his hole up and rolls a condom on. He wants to take a moment to admire the fresh-faced boy before him, but Niall's whine is so demanding that he foregoes taking a mental image and lines himself up between Niall's cheeks, pushes in, and immediately hits his sweet spot. The look on Niall's face alone — red, thoroughly kissed lips, eyes lolling back into his skull — makes Harry want to come right on the spot, but he steels himself and makes sure to keep going, keep pushing in and out. "O-oh, _fuck_ ," Harry mutters, just as Niall whimpers and moans. 

Harry even grips his fist around the base of Niall's cock, pumping slowly up and down, and Niall's sense are entirely overwhelmed. It takes all of his strength to not scream, pull Harry in for a kiss, and cry all at once. 

"G-gonna c-come," Niall groans, tilting his head up exasperatedly against the matress, so that his coiffed hair grows more and more dishevelled by the minute. Harry couldn't care less. 

_Good_ , Harry thinks, because he doesn't think he can hold it in much longer. Both boys come — Harry first, and then Niall — quickly, one after the other, and Harry decides he can deal with the come on his grandmother's dresser tomorrow, because for right now, he just wants to wrap his sweaty body around Niall's. "Stay?" he almost whimpers. He's too stuck in a post-orgasm state to care about how desperate he sounds. Niall smiles, nods, and plants a kiss on Harry's nose. 

"That was probably the best sex I've ever had," Niall remarks. 

"Probably?" Harry prods, grinning, his breath still uneven. 

"No, scratch that. Definitely."


End file.
